"The doctor has just left me. At last I have got at something definite For all his cunning, he had to speak out at last. Yes, I am soon, very soon, to die. The frozen rivers will break up, and with the last snow I shall, most likely, swim away . . . whither? God knows To the ocean too. Well, well, since one must die, one may as well die in the spring. But isn't it absurd to begin a diary a fortnight, perhaps, before death?" Thus begins DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN by Russian classical author Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev (1818-1883). The dying man looks back upon his life and his love in a gently fading series of lyrical entries that are summed up in these words: "To find a haven of refuge, to build oneself even a temporary nest, to feel the comfort of daily intercourse and habits, was a happiness I, a superfluous man, with no family associations, had never before experienced."